


As Red As Any Blood

by victorine



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Cannibalism, Christmas, Dark Will Graham, Fairytale elements, First Kiss, M/M, Murder, Mythical Beings & Creatures, Supernatural Elements, questionable taste in christmas decorations
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-30
Updated: 2016-12-30
Packaged: 2018-09-13 11:30:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9121537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/victorine/pseuds/victorine
Summary: At the forest's edge, a Wendigo watches a boy. He is marked as prey... but this night is full of surprises.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TigerPrawn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TigerPrawn/gifts), [HotSauce418](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HotSauce418/gifts), [slashyrogue](https://archiveofourown.org/users/slashyrogue/gifts), [TCbook](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TCbook/gifts).



> This was supposed to be ready for Christmas but... well... it's still the festive period though, right?
> 
> Dedicated to the lovely and amazing TigerPrawn, HotSauce418, nightliferogue and TCbook, who provide constant support and encouragement for my nonsense. Love you guys <33333

The Wendigo liked red. Red was the colour of warmth, of life. Of food. Of blood.

It was also the colour of the objects that the boy was tying to the branches of the trees at the mouth of the Wendigo’s forest. The Wendigo could not understand why the human should be doing such a thing – humans usually picked fruit _from_ the branches, they did not attach it to them, and besides, the things the boy was hanging up did not smell sweet and sharp like fruit, but cool and smooth like river water. It had no wish to stop the boy though, he was a pleasant thing to watch, a riot of pleasing colours and shapes, brown swirls for hair and blue orbs for eyes and a pink curve of a mouth. Eventually he would make a fine meal, but there was no harm in letting him go about his task beforehand.

And then the boy began to sing. Under his breath at first, so low that there was barely a tune, but quickly growing in volume as the boy warmed to it.

_The holly bears a berry  
As red as any blood_

It was quite the most beautiful thing the Wendigo had heard in a hundred years.

Soon, too soon, the light bled from the sky and the boy stepped back to admire his work, head tipped back to expose his throat, as if inviting the Wendigo to bite down and rip, blood and teeth and the warm rush of life.

It would not.

It watched the boy retreat back towards the village nearby, tracking the beat of his heart to a little house just at its edge. For hours it sat at the treeline, listening to the sounds of the boy’s life, mundane, domestic, utterly human. The Wendigo detected a second heartbeat inside the little house, but quickly realised that it belonged to an animal, a companion for the boy. No other human lived with him, or approached the house, and the Wendigo wondered at how they kept their distance from this beauty. Once upon a time, when it had been a human man, it would have stayed close to the boy at all moments of the day, simply to gaze at his lovely countenance, to hear his voice raised in song.

The Wendigo had not had thoughts such as these in many years, and they shook it a little, unfamiliar and confusing. Not enough, though, to cause it to leave. Instead it remained through the night, as the boy’s heartbeat and breath slowed into sleep, as the stars caused the red baubles to sparkle, tinkling softly in the breeze. It felt no cold, and needed no sleep, and might have been content to remain there past morning, cradled in the undergrowth and the boy’s distant, sighing breaths. But with daylight would come exposure, would come screaming and violence and death, and the Wendigo’s plans to eat the boy had faded with the notes of his song. So he would leave, withdraw once more into the depths of the forest and await some less sweet prey.

But not without a souvenir.

It glanced up, to the highest point of the tallest tree, where a red bauble glinted invitingly. This one, the boy had breathed upon before he hung it, had brought his lips almost to touching, before rubbing it against his coat to shine it. This would be the Wendigo’s prize, the lingering patina of the boy’s breath against the glass, the mark of his fingerprints etched in its surface.

So the Wendigo climbed.

It was not easy going. Its antlers caught on the branches with every move, and while its claws made its grip sure, its spindling limbs made manoeuvring awkward and progress slow. So slow that the sun was beginning to seep back into the world as it finally attained the top of the tree and sliced the ribbon holding the bauble in place, catching the treasure in its oversized hand. It paused for a moment then, looking out over the quiet, rose-tinted land that spread beneath it, so much of it forbidden to a creature such as itself. It wondered if the boy was often in the world, his beauty surely lighting each street he wandered, or if he kept always to himself in that cosy little house on the edge of the wood.

And in that moment, as the image of the beautiful boy crossed its mind, the Wendigo realised that it had stopped paying attention to the boy’s heartbeat as it climbed, so focussed had it been on rising higher and higher. And now, as it sought its rhythm once again, he found that the boy’s heart was racing, pounding in his chest.

And that it was once more nearby.

The Wendigo looked down, straight into the wide, blue eyes of the boy and cursed itself for lingering, for allowing sentiment to drive its actions and damn the boy to death. For it must be death now, and quickly; better than allowing the boy to flee to the village and bring hunters with their weapons and flames into the forest. It dropped from its branch, bauble still cradled safely in hand, descending earthwards in but a moment to land lightly in front of the boy. It raised its claws and breathed deeply, close enough now to the boy to appreciate his scent in the last moments of his life, expecting a sour hit of fear and panic on the air.

And yet, the boy did not shrink from the Wendigo’s presence, did not flinch at the raise of the beast’s hand. His scent held wonder and excitement where terror should have been. The Wendigo stilled, unable to comprehend why the boy’s eyes sparkled as they ran over its body, up the length of its antlers, down to meet its own gaze. No human had ever looked at it with anything other than horror and fear, no man had ever held his ground in the face of its hulking, hideous presence. And yet this boy, little more than a child, stood fast and stared at the Wendigo with unguarded fascination. The Wendigo could not understand the boy’s actions, only that he could not kill him while those curious, dancing eyes held his own.

“You’re beautiful,” the boy breathed, and reached out a hand towards the Wendigo’s blackened flesh.

It was the beast, then, that flinched. It had been so many years since any tenderness had been directed towards it, the notion that contact could speak of anything but violence all but forgotten. The boy halted as the Wendigo pulled away, his arm hovering in mid-air, his hand level with the monster’s cheek. They stared at each other for a long moment, the boy waiting, the Wendigo wrestling its dual impulses to flee and fight. And then the beast leaned its cheek into the boy’s touch, sheer amazement flooding its body as the boy sighed in what sounded like contentment.

“What are you?” he murmured, with reverence in his tone.

The beast could only shake its head, softly, for fear of dislodging the boy’s hand, all warmth and softness. It had known how to speak, once, when it was still a man, but centuries with no need for conversation had robbed it of the skill. The boy did not seem to mind, though, only smiling gently and sliding his hand up to stroke the base of an antler.

The Wendigo shuddered. It was an odd pleasure to be touched in such a way and it felt itself sinking into the sensation of the boy’s fingers brushing lightly from base to tip.

“You are the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” the boy said, and then he was raising himself up on his toes, using his grip on the Wendigo’s antler to draw it down into a kiss.

There were many things the Wendigo had forgotten about being human. What it was to be cold. The feel of a soft bed. The sound of its sister’s laugh. But it was certain it would have remembered a kiss like this. The boy’s lips were soft but insistent, pressing against the Wendigo, who found for a moment it could do nothing but receive the boy’s warmth, unsure of what was happening, unused to using its mouth to do anything but rip and savage. Then the boy tugged gently on its antler, tilting its mouth into a better position and the beast felt itself respond, kissing back, pressing against the boy’s heat, wrapping long arms around his body to draw them closer. The boy licked against the seam of its mouth and a low rumble emanated from the beast’s chest as it opened its lips to let their tongues slide together. The Wendigo felt a thrill, not unlike that it felt when drawing its claws across the throat of a victim, but infinitely sweeter. It wanted to keep this feeling, to hold this boy close to it always.

Foolish monster.

How could it keep something so innocent, so sweet for itself? It could take the boy, carry him deep into the forest, secrete him away in some lair. And slowly, horribly slowly, the boy’s light would darken, he would turn bitter and resentful by degrees, made not for the cruelty and violence of the Wendigo’s world. To keep him would be to ruin the boy.

The Wendigo had never had cause to regret its transformation, had never looked back upon its humanity with fondness or yearning. It would feel regret for changing this boy, though, for the sweetness that suffused his very being and flowed into the Wendigo as they kissed. Better a memory of this perfect moment than a slow corruption of its joy into falsehood.

The Wendigo pulled back.

The boy tried to move with it, still on his toes, almost falling into the beast’s towering form and laughing softly when he caught himself. He smiled up at the Wendigo with such pure desire that it almost surrendered to his lips once more as they tilted up to it, pink and parted. 

“Please. I want,” the boy keened, voice low in his throat, and it took every ounce of strength for the Wendigo to shove him back.

Hurt and confusion flashed across the boy’s face, emotions that the Wendigo had barely the faintest memory of suddenly ripping into its chest. Then something hardened behind his eyes and he flung his slight form at the Wendigo, gripping its arms tight.

“You’re afraid. What has a creature like you got to be afraid of?” He clutched at it, expression tinged with desperation but softening by degrees. “Take me, I want you to. You need me to say that? I do. I want to see you.”

Again, the Wendigo pushed the boy away, and as it did so, it raked a claw against his stomach. It was careful, oh so careful, scoring deep enough to draw blood but not to do permanent damage. Enough to convince the boy of his mistake, of the danger in wanting something like the Wendigo.

Yet even as the boy screamed and fell to the ground, he reached out with one arm towards the monster, the other clutching at his belly.

“You can’t leave without me,” the boy panted.

The Wendigo turned from him, not allowing its gaze to linger.

“Don't,” the boy pleaded.

But the Wendigo was already gone, shards of glittering red embedded in its palm. 

***

A year passed. A year in which the Wendigo did not once allow itself to stray back to the edge of the forest. Four seasons of slaughter, wild and unrestrained as any of his kills when he was fresh to the hunt, rarely for food but instead to stem the ravening ache the boy had wakened within him.

It never worked for long. Always, the need to see the boy again would resurface, to scent him, to hear his song rise in the air. To feel his breath and the heat of his body mingle with its own once again.

The Wendigo was a creature of patience, of control; it was unused to the chaos of desire and felt itself turn weak and distracted as a result. It was unbearable, unacceptable.

As the year turned colder, it began to feel as if it could sense the boy, as if he was calling out for the Wendigo from beyond the forest. Some wordless pull began to tug at the beast and, without realising, it found itself hunting closer and closer to the treeline, its craving for the boy almost a physical thing now.

Perhaps, it began to convince itself, one last look would cure this ache. If only it could look upon the boy once more, to fix his countenance in its mind, to ensure that he had thrived in their separation, then it would be able to cast the boy from its mind forever.

And so, when the tug at its core had grown so strong as to be painful, the Wendigo returned to the edge of the forest.

Once again the boy had decorated the trees. All around the Wendigo, glass orbs sparkled and glittered. Save for those hanging from one particular tree, the one the Wendigo had stolen the bauble from. The one the boy had kissed him under. The objects hanging from _its_ branches gleamed, glossy and slick, their red turned black in the pale light of the moon. The Wendigo scented the air and found it thick with blood.

Upon every branch, suspended on fine lengths of vein and artery, the boy had hung a human heart.

“I thought perhaps I was stupid to imagine that you’d remember. I don’t suppose monsters have anniversaries. Do you even have dates?”

If the Wendigo had not known itself ruined by this boy before, it would have had no choice but to admit it now. For a second time he had approached unnoticed and, to make matters worse, he was now accompanied by a dog, the scent of both only now becoming obvious to the beast.

The boy’s scent was different, somehow, even sweeter and more tempting than a year ago. The Wendigo felt overwhelmed by the urge to force the boy to the ground, claim him and mark him as its own.

Instead it turned, slowly, carefully, to be greeted by the sight of a wide, satisfied grin and a pair of eyes that couldn’t quite hide the boy’s nervous anticipation. In truth, it hadn’t known it was a year to the day since it had met, kissed, and abandoned the boy. It had only known that the ache it had carried inside itself through summer heat and winter chill had grown too much to bear, and that only the sight of the boy would heal it.

“I should kill you,” the boy said, and the Wendigo tensed, unsure in that cruel stretch of a moment whether it would defend itself, or simply accept the end of its long life at the hands of this boy.

But then he spoke again, “I should kill you for leaving me behind,” and there was no threat in it, only regret and resignation and… hope? Affection? “Did you think you were protecting me, saving an innocent from darkness and foul corruption?” Will gazed up at the Wendigo with fond amusement. “Foolish monster. Do you know why no one comes near me?”

The Wendigo shook its heavy head.

“Because I see the truth of what they are. You think yourself a beast? All men hold darkness within them, in the centre of their brutal souls. Few have the courage to wear it openly; they hide beneath a thin veneer of respectability, pretending themselves noble and holy. If that is humanity, I want no part of it. I want the monster who wears its nature like a finely-made suit.”

Slowly, almost shyly, the boy removed his hat to reveal a small pair of antlers rising from out of his curls. At the Wendigo’s intake of breath, he grinned and reached up a hand to touch one of them. “I didn’t spend my year idly. I learned what you are, how you live… what you eat.” He smirked a little at this. “Imagine my delight to find that you had been like me once. Which meant that I could become like you. So easily, too, only a little addition to my diet and so many deserving meals to choose from. I saved the best for you, of course, for this, so that you would know not to leave me behind this time.” The boy paused then and looked, again, a little anxious. “You won’t, will you, my monster?”

The Wendigo looked down at the boy, at the sweetness that somehow still shone in his face and the antlers that signified his true nature. The same nature as the Wendigo’s.

“Hannibal,” it rasped.

The boy inhaled sharply and stared at the Wendigo in wonder, his own voice stolen for the moment. The Wendigo – Hannibal – took a step forward and dipped its head slightly towards the boy. In a rough voice that grew stronger with each word, Hannibal said, “I have not been idle either, little one. When we met, I remembered little of my human life. I had no need to speak and so had forgotten how. You reminded me of some of it that night, of what it meant to be looked at with desire instead of fear. Leaving you did not stop it; my human life returned to me, moment by moment, joy and pain all rushing upon me in a great flood. But I did not understand why this should be, why such memories should return to me after centuries.”

“Do you know now?” asked the boy.

“I remembered how to miss someone, so that I would not forget you. I remembered how to care for someone, so that I might make you happy. I learned how to speak, so that I could ask you to come away with me.”

The boy touched his antlers shyly and asked, “Where else would I go?”

And then the Wendigo could wait no longer to take its mate in its arms, breathing him in deeply and being scented happily in return.

Distantly, Hannibal was aware of the boy's dog pawing happily at them, a sign that the boy had never had any intention of returning to his home after this night. The dog was the only part of his past he would carry with him. Life with this boy for a mate, this boy who always seemed to be one step ahead, was looking to be interesting indeed.

After a few minutes they pulled apart again and the boy said, with only a touch of reproach marring his joyful expression, “We didn’t have to wait a whole year. I would have gone with you that night. I would have answered yes.”

“An answer given in haste, like a question asked too soon, is often regretted in the end,” said Hannibal, brushing a hand against the boy’s antler and enjoying the shiver he gave in response. “You will learn patience, little one, and you will learn how short a time a year is.”

“I will?” The boy looked up at Hannibal, half-lidded and smiling.

 “Oh yes, my remarkable boy” the monster said, drawing its mate into the kiss that would bind them together forever, “and that is only where we shall begin."


End file.
